Page 8 of When Love Comes Home

He doesn’t flinch. "Katie, I always knew I'd be coming home sooner or later."

The way he says it—calm, certain, like it's some universal truth—grates against me. Like I should’ve known, too. Like this—him standing in my living room—is something I should’ve prepared for.

"So, no wife? Girlfriend?"The second the words leave my mouth, regret floods in like a wave.Why did I ask that? Why do I care? Why do I give a—

"No," he says simply. I wait for more—some kind of clarification or offhand comment—but he stays quiet. His gaze lingers, steady and unreadable, hovering just long enough to stir something beneath my skin. And now my brain’s doing that thing it does—reading too much into everything.

I start separating the roses from the bunch, focusing on keeping my hands busy as I place them carefully in a vase, one by one. Still, my mind drifts—to his eyes, his smile, the warmth of his lips on my skin. I’m still trying to process the way it made me feel.

I sense his gaze before I look up—and when I do, I meet his eyes.

Oh no. I think I’m blushing.

I fill the vase with water and set it on the counter, adjusting the roses to make them look prettier—or maybe just to calm my nerves. Then I pour two coffees, the warm steam rising in the air, and walk over to him, handing him a cup.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice steady.

I sit on the couch across from him, preparing myself for what I know is coming.

He takes a sip of his coffee, then sets it down on the table between us, his eyes locking with mine.

“Katie, I’m going to be perfectly honest with you," he says, his voice calm. "I’ve wanted to have this conversation for years, but every time I visited your family, you were always conspicuously absent. Every single time. This talk is long overdue, so I’m just going to ask—what is your problem with me?”

I stare at him, insulted by his bluntness. My reply comes out sharp, oozing with contempt. “The fact that you have to ask is insulting, Adam. You took my father from me. I couldn’t turn around in my own house without bumping into you—morning, noon, and night. The only thing you didn’t do was sleep there. You are not my brother.” I regret my words too late. They’ve hit their mark. I see the hurt in his eyes, and a wave of guilt crashes over me.

“Listen, Katie, ever since I’ve known your father, there’ve been two topics that never fail to come up: sports and his family. I feel like I know you and your sisters better than anyone, because your dad’s always kept me in the loop. We talk about a lot of things—him, Sharon, the business—but more than anything, he talks about his beauties. That’s what he calls you all, his beauties. Your father is a good man, and I know that no matter how much time he gave me, he always made sure there was more than enough for you, your mom, and your sisters.”

I want him to stop, but I remain silent. Is it possible that I’ve been wrong all this time? Have I built up all this resentment from my own insecurities? Was it envy towards a boy who seemed to have more in common with my dad than I did? As a kid, I wanted to play with dolls, not throw a football. I wanted to curl up with a book, not watch a game on television.

I always felt like Adam had so much more to share with my father than I ever could. But had my father ever truly held back his time or love from any of us?

Before I have a chance to speak, he continues, “I’ll stay in a hotel until I find a new place. I would never ask you to move out, nor would I force you to put up with me. I'm perfectly aware of how you feel about me.”

His words are laced with hurt, and I instantly feel regret.

He stands up, adding, “For now, I’ll go. Thank you for the coffee.” He picks up the cup—still full—and hands it back to me. I take it and stand, my knees suddenly weak.

Wait... is he leaving?

“I’ll talk to Jon tomorrow,” he says. “Please don’t give it a second thought. This isn’t your problem. You have six months left on your lease. For now, this is your house.” He smiles. “Good night, Katie.”

He reaches over and gently tucks a small strand of hair behind my ear. His touch feels like a thousand flames, and this time, I know I’m blushing.

He walks toward the door, and I don’t say a word. I’m frozen, rooted to the spot, as I hear the door open and then close softly behind him. He’s gone, leaving the night to settle in around me.

Chapter 5

Adam

It’sjustpastsixin the morning when I step out of the shower, the events of last night replaying in my head over and over. She asked if I was married or had a girlfriend. Probably to drive home the fact that she thinks no one could ever care enough about me to wear either title.

I know why she resents me, but I wanted to hear it from her—explained in her own words. Jon and I have talked about Katie’s dislike of me countless times over the years. He’s always certain that her negative feelings are temporary, but after eighteen years, I’m not so sure. What was he thinking when he offered me the extra room in her house? That she’d welcome me with open arms? What was I thinking when I accepted? Jon’s an optimist. I’m a realist.

I slip into blue jeans, a white t-shirt, and some work boots, knowing I’ll be visiting several projects today. In the small kitchenette, I make my usual breakfast: a peanut butter andNutellasandwich. It’s the only thing I can make without causing a disaster. I pour myself a glass of milk and start going over the renovation plans and estimates scattered on the counter. Looks like it’s going to be a long day.

***

A few hours later, I’m covered in dust and starving. I know I could delegate most of the work on my projects, but for some reason, I always dive right in. Cutting, measuring, climbing, installing, painting—it’s in my blood. You can take the man out of manual labor, but you can’t take the manual labor out of the man.

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